Saturday, August 11, 2007

Introduction, Commentary, and thoughts on: Juan Parra del Riego (in English Only) by Dlsiluk

Chosen and Translated
By

Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk And Dennis L. Siluk Dr. h.c.


With Introduction, Commentaries
Biography and Editing by Dennis L. Siluk
(Author's forthcoming book: "Jatunmayo..."
(The Mantaro Valley)

The Poetry of: Dennis L. Siluk Dr. h.c.


and ‘The Translated Poetry of Juan Parra del Riego’
(Translated from the Spanish into English
by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, and Edited by Dennis L. Siluk-Poet Laureate)


First Time Ever Translated Spanish into English




Introductions
By Dennis L. Siluk and Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk


Juan Parra del Riego, is an authentic poet with deep feeling. He does not hide the difficult parts of his life, which are often full of despair, and dim lights, he describes it with love and paces rapidly to and fro, the master of Polirritmo in the time of Modernism in poetry (1914 to 1965).There is tenderness, rowdiness, hunger, restlessness, and compassion for life in his poetry (he was dying when writing much of his poetry, and lived only until his 31st Birthday). Born in Huancayo, Peru, he eventually moved to Uruguay, where he started his own movement. He visited Paris once and had to borrow money to get back home, like most poets of their times, he died a pauper. His poetry must be explored more so than simply read, it has a delicate balance to it, a lively spirit inside of it, and the author never seems quite content. Dlsiluk


About my husband, Dennis L. Siluk, he was awarded Diploma of Recognition by Los Andes Peruvian University, in Huancayo, Peru for outstanding literary achievement and promoting the culture of the Mantaro Valley (12/2006); Awarded a Diploma of Honor by “The College of Journalists of Peru “for his (poetic) writings and contributions; Awarded a certificate of recognition by the University National Center Peru for his contribution to the Education and Culture of the Mantaro Valley (2007). Dennis was also the winter of two columnists’ awards (2004, 2005), and awarded the English Magazines top story of the month (October, 2006). And most recently his poetry was published in the anthology of Peruvian Poets, “Literaturea de Junin Siglo XX” by Apolinario Mayta Inga.

I brought my husband to the Mantaro Valley five years ago, and he fell in live with it, and hearing of Juan Parra del Riego, he wanted to read his poetry, but it was all in Spanish, never translated, thus he and I started to translated it, sometimes spending many hours (each) on just one poem (morning and nights) to insure we got the correct meaning in English, imagery (and or symbolism), and content (for as my husband said, “He uses a lot of figurative meanings”), or at least the closest one could get. He found Juan Parra’s poetry to be quite interesting, and had told me he enjoyed it much more than Cesar Vallejo’s, all respect intended.

By Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk


Carlos Parra del Riego, one more brother to Juan Parra del Riego, was also a poet in his own right, and like his older brother Juan, died also tuberculosis. He got his illness in Argentina, and in 1936, came back to Huancayo, Peru for a cure. He lived here in Huancayo for another three years and died (also lived part time in Jauja). He was hospitalized most of the time. His writings, “Why I killed the child,” and “Romantic Serenade,” both done in prose style poetry.



Thoughts and Notes on Juan Parra del Riego


1—It should be noted, Cesar Vallejo was 45-years old when he died, and Juan Parra del Riego was 31; Vallejo born 1893, died 1938, and Riego born 1894, died 1925, both were friends. One year apart in age. ´Both Great poets, but for my money would take Juan Parra before Vallejo; he is the greatest modern poet in Uruguay, and not quite that well known in Peru, although Huancayo, where he was born he is clearly a name recognized.

2—To my knowledge one has yet to write a full biography of Riego in English, the contents in this book (and on a site I created for him on the internet in English and Spanish) is the closest thing to one; with some poems, background, sketches, photos of himself and his brothers, and so forth, some external facts to guide us through his life, is the closest thing thus far written on him in over a half century, and the only one in English., ever.

3—We know like Vallejo, Juan went to Paris, and had to borrow money to get back home, thus, he ended up poor, as most poets do, a few exceptions who have received inheritances to help them make it through life.

4—Some reader may ask, ‘Just what can we learn from this Peruvian poet?” This would in itself give justification for publishing, editing, and translating his poetry and background. I mean it was no easy task to do. First of all, scarcely does anyone know the existence of this great poet in North America, or Europe. As they didn’t know about Vallejo, until Robert Bly (North American Poet) translated his works in 1962. I have tried to bring this poet stamina and imagination to bear on the hunger and pain he faced, while writing his poetry, for he was dying during the process, thus we see a different kind of reality here. We see his inner world, almost his soul; this is why I think he is an import poet. Dlsiluk

Thursday, August 9, 2007

Thoughts and Notes on Juan Parra del Riego (by Dennis L. Siluk)

1—It should be noted, Cesar Vallejo was 45-years old when he died, and Juan Parra del Riego was 31; Vallejo born 1893, died 1938, and Parra del Riego born 1894, died 1925, both were friends. One year apart in age. ´Both Great poets, but for my money would take Juan Parra before Vallejo; he is the greatest modern poet in Uruguay, and not quite that well known in Peru, although Huancayo, where he was born he is clearly a name recognized.

2—To my knowledge one has yet to write a full biography of Parra del Riego in English, the contents in this book (and on a site I created for him on the internet in English and Spanish) is the closest thing to one; with some poems, background, sketches, photos of himself and his brothers, and so forth, some external facts to guide us through his life, is the closest thing thus far written on him in over a half century, and the only one in English, ever.

3—We know like Vallejo, Juan went to Paris, and had to borrow money to get back home, thus, he ended up poor, as most poets do, a few exceptions who have received inheritances to help them make it through life.

4—Some reader may ask, ‘Just what can we learn from this Peruvian poet?” This would in itself give justification for publishing, editing, and translating his poetry and background. I mean it was no easy task to do. First of all, scarcely does anyone know the existence of this great poet in North America, or Europe. As they didn’t know about Vallejo, until Robert Bly (North American Poet) translated his works in 1962; I have tried to bring this poet stamina and imagination to bear on the hunger and pain he faced, while writing his poetry, for he was dying during the process, thus we see a different kind of reality here. We see his inner world, almost his soul; this is why I think he is an import poet. Dlsiluk

Monday, August 6, 2007

"Far & Magic Christmas Eve" (By Juan Parra del Riego)(Edited by Dennis L. Siluk) In Spanish and English

Two Poems

(By Juan Parra del Riego)

Translated by Rosa de Peñaloza de Siluk & Edited by D. L. Siluk, Poet Laureate

Fragments

Far & Magic Christmas Eve

Lejos

(Spanish)

Con alas de oro, de plata y música
me fui a la vida.
Cabeza cana que nunca olvido
luna dormida en mi corazón.


Far
(English)
(Written to his mother in Lima, Peru)

With golden wings, of silver and music,
I went to life.
Gray hair I never forgot
sleeping moon in my heart.




¡Noche Buena Mágica!

(Spanish)

Era en Lima, la áurea ciudad colonial…
Te acuerdas, oh, madre, de la Nochebuena
tan sentimental?
Yo aun miro la cena,
los hilos de plata que el árbol llovía.
Dios era en la casa
el buen compañero de aquella alegría.




Magic Christmas Eve!

(English)

It was in Lima, the golden colonial city…
Do you remember, oh, mother, of the Christmas Eve night
so sentimental?
I still look at the dinner,
the silver thread that rains from the tree.
God was in the house
the great sidekick of that happiness.


Note: Here are two poems, in fragment and stanza form (extracted from the book by Juan Parra del Riego ‘Prosa,’ 1943 (Biblioteca de Cultura Uruguaya, Montevideo). And like many of his poems Juan Parra focuses on deep dramatics, death, images, illusions and fantasy. His poems rip at ones insides, tender and spiritual they can be, with flexible rhythm. His intentions were to create a series of poems with this sort of flexible rhythm, mixed with dramatics and diversity, but he died before he could get to that summit. When he first started writing his poems, he gave public lectures, and readings on them.

It might be of interest to the reader, that even this great poet, like so many of us, Juan Parra del Riego had his heroes, people that inspired him, and influence him. The two he most admired were Chocano, and Walt Whitman, in that order. What I see here is that their poetry melted into his own qualities, thus he created his own voice (or style), yet it was perhaps down through them.



Manuel Parra del Riego & Articulo de Adolfo Garcia Salas
(Two Brothers) 1975 and 1949

Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Canto to the Carnival (Canto al Carnaval)

By Juan Parra del Riego, translated from the Spanish into English by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, and edited by Dennis L. Siluk-Poet Laureate.


ENGLISH VERSION

Canto to the Carnival

Laughing has a wonderful freedom,
the city’s carnival has a wheel of colors.
In the squares, on the towers, windows and corners,
the moon is jumping like a little girl
as the ribbons are hung around telephones
for this fuming universal party.

Swings of laugher! Trees of love!
With their hearts, boyfriends warm the night.
One has already run for a dress-coat, pale he goes!
Crimson dreams
she’s thinking of something sly and unlikely
that only this night might bring…

In the jingle-bells there are small elves
that say: do not doubt! Let’s go to dream!
Let’s go to dance!
Let’s go to sing!
The night opens silk windows
and if you do not come, forever you shall remain
in the bleak pearl of waiting.
Let’s go to sing!
Let’s go to dance!

And on the Avenue
that burns the fruits hanging from the lighting
now the moving platforms (floats), lift their hallucinations
heads with masks—the great fantasy.
The sidewalk lights are happy with illumination, like a dream port.
The houses yell, kiss and hug each other
as clouds of music and paper-ribbons
and the mad music, and painted signs
move on dreamily with its happy blaze.

Comic acrobatics…exceptional ventriloquism
from a shotgun muzzle
the black tear on a white faced clown,
under Cleopatra, a choir of trumpets
greeting to the stars and to love!
Kettledrums! Piccolos!

Insolence outrage… bizarre kites
The open air gardens are fresh and flat.
Madness, happiness, paleness, and love!
Passes the slow car of concubines,
the white group with green humor
passes the group of Ten Franciscas
and the marvelous car of the Emperor!
Queens and clowns,
- a red colored cane, flies in the air-
the comedians tangle by the moon with their steps,
drums of the east have enchanting strokes
and jumps, and reflections, nights and fruits.

Here come the blacks of sensual dance
with legs of puppets and laughs of the moon
they fall asleep on the tropical bass-drum;
these fantastic and imaginative blacks
they dramatize with vague and full of life
gestures and greetings of monkey’s and goats
laughing to the spinal marrow.

A car brings a sudden float of angels
and then another, with ‘Walkiria’ swift hairs of paper
one after another moves away throwing delightfully
jingle-bells of a crazy harlequin.
The astronomic group of the Chinese passes
-how cheerless, onward, goes the pale and sweet mandarin!
The rider cuts me
a paper-ribbon with a blue elf!
(be careful with this girl, she is like a toy
defending her wings of tulle)
and the floats, rise with the night, in golden arms.

Large and tropical music for the popular streets.
Behind the cloudy sorrow, of purple teeth,
this is my pirouette, my nose, my walk!
And I look at this house:
laughs from the balcony, with beards, ribbons and veils,
sounds by a window…a mask passes…
and I vision, she is with them and others
dancing to this tearful music and violoncellos …
Silver and blue bicycles with stars run their way
towards the boulevards
jump, and rise with mocking faces,
and I am mad now, for never am I able to reach
the fantastic mouth of this thin mask,
that throughout the whole night makes me flutter.
But at this corner
four dominos have remained still,
and I am afraid at his corner
of the dominos standing up and still.

Let’s go Ana!
Give me your arm Margarita!
There is a dance in this house called the bell
of a never-ending madness!
Grab me, Josefina!
I bring love to the circus with my red beard.

I know what it did not tell you, the crazy ribbon
that is in your pony-tail was falling asleep as if it was a flower.
But the float passes…
Passes!
A springboard for the lively acrobat at heart!
Ditches with water, ribbons, clowns and women.
Full of wine and happiness, and their mouths of delusion
The float passes…
Passes…passes..!
Now the streets are empty and…on the ground there is a lost mask
this last clown gets into a house where
a burning light is by a little window!

And again the floats go on their way
the roar of the shouting is like the sleigh-bells!
The Bears! The Fairies…the queen…the bandit…
All are tales that come out into the street
staggeringly free of their houses of paper…!
The Volanta of Colombina has arrived
—I throw this flower to the blond laughing—
The Volanta of Colombina has left
and now a serenade of paper-ribbons
go calling her in the street with their flutes of color!

Lost, ancient, gray, and sweet-smelling
pieces of music give me a shiver,
—there is a dance in those distant balconies—
and I know that she is, whose gloves these belong to
that behind her back is crystal,
a suspension of the moon
and on her black vest, a flower opens.
Passes the float with its river
which is going to get lost to the moon, with its triumphal uproar.

And in the city, it became like a great empty theater
I feel that my heart
is walking as a lonely and ghostly cat.
The floats go away! The noise goes away
but I hang onto the magic, to your lights, and loves,
the Carnival!
An undertaking of immense health, like watering of the flowers
that leave our heads like colorful tops
spinning, spinning, spinning,
in your hand of crystal.


SPANISH VERSION


Canto al Carnaval

Libertad maravillosa de la risa,
la ciudad corre en las ruedas de colores, ¡Carnaval!
Ya en las plazas y torres, ventanas y esquinas,
saltando como una niñita la luna
cuelga los teléfonos de las serpentinas
para tu furiosa fiesta universal.
¡Columpios de risas! ¡Árboles de amores!
Los novios calientan la noche con su corazón.
Ya aquel ha corrido por un frac… ¡va pálido!
Rosada de sueños
ella piensa en algo furtivo y fantástico
que sólo esta noche podría pasar…
(En los cascabeles hay duendes pequeños
que dicen: ¡no dudes! ¡vamos a soñar!
¡Vamos a bailar!
¡Vamos a cantar!
La noche abre dulces ventanas de seda
y si tú no vienes por siempre te quedas
en la desolada perla de esperar.
¡Vamos a cantar!
¡Vamos a bailar!
Y por la Avenida
que quema las frutas de la iluminación
ya el Corso va alzando con su delirante
cabeza de máscaras la gran ilusión.
Veredas con luces felices de puertos soñados.
Las casas se besan, se gritan, se abrazan
a nubes de música y de serpentinas,
y la opera loca de gritos pintados
avanza soñando su incendio feliz.
Acrobacias bufas…ventriloquia rara
súbita escopeta de aquella nariz
La lágrima negra de esa blanca cara.
Cleopatra sobre un coro de trompetas
saludando a las estrellas y al amor!
¡Timbales! ¡Flautines!
Latones de escándalo…absurdas cometas.
El aire abre planos y frescos jardines.
Locura, alegría, palidez, amor!
Pasa el carro lento de las odaliscas,
La comparsa blanca, la del verde humor,
pasa la comparsa de las Diez Franciscas
el carro tremendo del Emperador!
Reinas y payasos,
-por el aire vuela un bastón colorado-
los pierrots que enredan la luna en sus pasos,
tambores de Oriente de golpe encantado,
y saltos de espejos y noches y frutas.
Ya llegan los negros del baile sensual
con piernas de títeres y risas de luna
que se duermen sobre el bombo tropical;
los negros fantástico e imaginativos
que se dramatizan en vagos y vivos
saludos de monos y gestos de chivos
que se ríen por la médula espinal.
Trae un auto una súbita bandeja de ángeles
y tras otro, Walkiria de veloces cabellos de papel
cruza uno que se aleja tirando los divinos
cascabeles de un lunático arlequín.
Pasa la astronómica murga de los chinos
-qué triste, adelante, va el pálido y dulce mandarín!
Me corta el jinete
de una serpentina con su duende azul!
(Cuidado con esa niña que es como un juguete
defendiendo sus alas de tul)
Y el corso levanta la noche en sus brazos dorados.
Largo trópico de música por la calle popular.
Atrás turbia pena de dientes morados,
esta es mi pirueta, mi nariz, mi andar!
Y miro esa casa:
el balcón se ríe con barbas de cintas y velos,
suena una ventana…un antifaz pasa…
y yo soñé que es ella que está con los otros
bailando a esa música de agua y violoncellos…
Las estrellas corren en sus bicicletas
plateadas y azules por el “boulevard”
saltan, como rosas, tristes morisquetas,
y yo ya estoy loco de nunca alcanzar
la boca fantástica de ese antifaz fino
que toda la noche me hizo palpitar.
Pero en esa esquina
cuatro dominós se han quedado quietos,
y yo tengo miedo en aquella esquina
de los dominós parados y quietos.
¡Vamos Ana!
¡Dame el brazo Margarita!
En esa casa hay un baile que parece la campana
de una locura infinita!
Préndete, a mi, Josefina!
en mis barbas coloradas llevo el circo del amor!
Yo sé lo que no te ha dicho esa loca serpentina
que en tu moño fue durmiéndose como si fuera una flor.
Pero el Corso pasa…
¡Pasa!
¡Trampolín para el acróbata lívido del corazón!
¡Regatas de aguas, de cintas, de payasos y mujeres
con sus viñas de alegría y sus bocas de ilusión!
Pasa el corso…
Pasa…pasa…!
Y ya la calle está sola…por el suelo hay una máscara perdida
Y es tan grave este último payaso que se mete en esa casa de
una sola ventanita encendida!
Y otra vez el Corso rompe en su camino
La nube de gritos que es su cascabel!
¡Los osos! Las hadas…la reina…el bandido…
son todos los cuentos que a la calle han salido
fabulosamente libres de sus casas de papel…!
Llega la volanta de las colombinas
-a la rubia de la risa yo le tiro esta flor-
Se va la volanta de las colombinas.
Y serenata de serpentinas
van llamándola en la calle con sus flautas de color!
Perdidos, antiguos, plateados, fragantes
pedazos de música me dan su temblor.
-Hay baile en aquellos balcones distantes-
Y yo sé que es ella la de aquellos guantes
que tras el cristal da su espalda en una
disolución de luna
que sobre el negro corpiño le abre su flor.
Pasa el Corso con su río
que va a perderse a la luna con su estrépito triunfal.
Y en la ciudad que se queda como un gran teatro vacío
yo siento que el corazón mío
se pasea como un gato solitario y fantasmal.
¡Se va el Corso! Se va el ruido
Pero yo me cuelgo, mágico, a tu luz y tus amores
Carnaval!
¡Salud inmensa aventura de las aguas y las flores
que nos dejan las cabezas como trompos de colores
dando vuelvas, vueltas, vueltas
en tu mano de cristal.

Letter from my mother (Carta de mi madre)

By Juan Parra del Riego, translated from the Spanish into English by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, and edited by Dennis L. Siluk-Poet Laureate.


ENGLISH VERSION


Letter from my Mother

A letter that I was waiting for in fear
a letter I’ve scarcely
read, distracted by the dinning room.
This letter from mother…the one that always
makes me tremble,
turn pale and yell…
Postman! How late did you come today!
With her deafness she was going to poison me.
This letter from her…letter that I waited for!
A sudden happiness filled my heart!
And with a few rare doubts in which I’ll die
alone and pale with, as a thief.
A letter from my mother that already I have forgotten,
in which she only sends me orders
ay! Letters that so many times have saved me,
this time…cannot, forgive me so?



SPANISH VERSION


CARTA DE MI MADRE

Carta que esperaba antes con temblor
carta que ahora apenas
leo distraído por el comedor.
Carta de ella…la carta que solo
ya me hace temblar
palidecer o gritar…
¡Cartero! ¡Qué tarde llegaste hoy día!
Con su sordo alcohol me iba a envenenar.
Carta de ella… ¡Carta que ya solo espero!
¡Alegrías súbitas en mi corazón!
O unas dudas raras con las que me muero
Solitario y pálido como un ladrón.
Carta de mi madre que ya te he olvidado
por la que ella solo me puede mandar
¡Ay! Carta que tantas veces me has salvado,
esta vez…¿No me puedes perdonar?

Monday, July 30, 2007

Zuray Zurita's Serenade ((in English and Spanish)(Juan Parra del Riego))

ENGLISH VERSION

Translated by Rosa Penaloza de Siluk, edited by D.L. Siluk Poet Laureate.

Zuray Zurita's Serenade

It has eyelids, the moon, and my agony
I came as a madman from the sea of dreaming.
I got lost at a silent port, where the day
was weary of waiting.

Zuray Zurita
don’t you hear me weeping?
I had gone to the sea with sails and colors…
for on land I was tired of fighting…
a stubborn seeker’s dream
hurting from my ways and throbs,
I wanted to wait for her.

Zuray Zurita
don’t you hear me to weeping?

And I said to the dove and to the star:
my heart wants to find her,
waning of songs I departed after her
speechless she is, more so than death, and so beautiful!
and she is finer than the deep.

Zuray Zurita
don’t you hear me to weeping?

Bitterness, has stained me
demanding and slaying years have taught me to forget…
Blue moon overhead: such madness,
and to all the waves of the sea, my fast rambler ’s cape.

Zuray Zurita
don’t you hear me to weeping?

And I said to her, I come a stranger,
you do not remember me,
drop by drop I gave my blood, all these years…
I am sightless for calling…

Zuray Zurita
don´t you hear me to weeping?
The sky has a bell
and a garden the sea
headlines fill the morning like flags,
I saw her…yet my soul could not reach her.

Zuray Zurita
don’t you hear me weeping?

I have seen in souls and upper bodies
a scorpion’s thrill to strike…
I have seen homes disengaged
and to the clown of colors, the moon is their roof
here they give a stellar jump.

Zuray Zurita
don’t you hear me weeping?

With the harp of the dawn I was getting myself to walk…
lying, while in a melancholy laziness
a slow worm was killing me day by day
and my eyes got lost in the stars and the sea.

Zuray Zurita
don’t you hear me weeping?



SPANISH VERSION

Serenata de Zuray Zurita

Tiene párpados de luna mi agonía
De la mar yo vine loco de soñar.
Me perdí en un puerto mudo donde el día
estaba muerto de esperar
Zuray Zurita
¿no me oyes llorar?
A la mar me fui con vela de colores…
de la tierra estaba sucio de luchar…
Tercos sueños cazadores
Dolorido de caminos y tambores,
yo la quería esperar.
Zuray Zurita
¿no me oyes llorar?
Y le dije a la paloma y a la estrella:
mi corazón la quiere encontrar,
moribundo de canciones voy tras ella
y es más muda que la muerte, ¡y es tan bella!
y es más fina que la mar.
Zuray Zurita
¿no me oyes llorar?
Me ha manchado la amargura
años arduos y asesinos me han enseñado a olvidar…
Luna azul de mi sombrero: la locura,
y mi capa de andarín: todas las olas del mar.
Zuray Zurita
¿no me oyes llorar?
Y le dije vengo extraño,
no me puedes recordar,
gota a gota di mi sangre todo el año…
estoy ciego de llamar…
Zuray Zurita
¿no me oyes llorar?
Tiene el cielo una campana
y un jardín tiene la mar.
Volanta de cintas llena de mañana,
la vi…y no la pudo mi alma alcanzar.
Zuray Zurita
¿no me oyes llorar?
Yo he visto en almas y pechos
a un alacrán perforar…
yo he visto hogares deshechos
y a payasos de colores que a la luna de los techos
daban un brinco estelar.
Zuray Zurita
¿no me oyes llorar?
Con el arpa de la aurora me ponía a caminar…
Pérfida languidez de la melancolía
me iba una seda lenta matando día a día
y mis ojos se perdieron en las estrellas del mar.
Zuray Zurita
¿no me oyes llorar?

Sunday, July 29, 2007

The Works of Juan Parra del Riego (By D.L. Siluk)

The Works of Juan Parra del Riego

Juan Parra del Riego publicó en Lima sólo en revistas sus llamados Polirritmos, que eran de estilo Futurista.
Parra del Riego publicó libros de poemas en Montevideo, Uruguay, país en el que murió en 1925.
"Himnos del cielo y los ferrocarriles" 1925-Montevideo
"Blanca Luz" 1925- Montevideo
"Tres polirritmos inéditos" 1937 Montevideo

También publicó una antología de poetisas americanas en 1923, Montevideo.

Luego se recopiló su obra poética en :
"Poesía" 1943 ( Biblioteca de cultura uruguaya) - Montevideo
y su obra en prosa en :
"Prosa" 1943 (Biblioteca de cultura uruguaya), este último contiene las notas de crítica, los artículos periodísticos y las cartas del autor.


Su obra bastante desperdigada en revistas y periódicos pueden enumerarse así:
- “La Verdad de la Mentira” (1915-Lima)
- “Poesías” (1972-Huancayo)
- “Poesías y Polirritmos” (1988-Lima)

Sus poesías fueron publicados en le diario “El Sol” y en la revista “Balnearios”

Night No: 8 (In English and Spanish-Juan Parra del Riego)

Poem Four

ENGLISH VERSION

Translated from the Spanish to the English, by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk and Edited by Dennis L. Siluk (Poet Laureate)



Night Nro. 8


Hurting in the moon, the road fades away
I am going to feel more today your soul, there;
Hurting in the moon that looks and waits for me
and gives its lonely carrier pigeon
memories that belong to you.
I look at the mysterious loneliness in the sky
and nothing is deeper than your love,
a dancer of bitterness, a tap dancer on ice.
Oh! Syrian, you are the sweet violinist of the sky!
Here, makes me understand you better.
For you are the light that trembles there:
I go alone. I go tired. I go blind. I go lost.
And this night of the moon, which has soundless music
it is as if your soul is put deep into a nest
and my weeping goes without end.
With my black hat awash in the moon
I tell you of my suffering.
I shall ask death for more dread to unite us…
I shall ask life for pleasant fortune
with kisses of madness and trembling.
I will tell you the history of a wandering man
that one day he launched into a bitter world.
He was the happy young wayfarer when he left
Later, bent and sad, and more out of breath
his bleeding heart, returned.
He neither became a dreamer nor learned humorist
for those who only wish to deceive.
In life he saw the abyss was oblivion
and his great secret was to be always himself
and with a warm soul waiting….
And he saw that love was the obvious path
and for that, it was essential to survive;
—oh, much-loved, the sweetest, who encourages—
I that have departed in your soul have come to face you
yet I already realize why I have to live.
Before the moon, I know why I tremble as I poet
the time being of Musset and Jorge Sand;
in my restless city, I sometimes more than pace
I look for intimate dark quant plazas
where other warm things are.
and why my soul vibrates when I look upon a few flowers
and in the faint and blue late afternoon
words of color hum in my head.
And by the jeweler’s shop, wet with brilliancies
I remain frail, as a woman.
And why, I am slower in my steps and ways
and in all, my soul knots and twists with emotion;
and there under the pines, are night guitars
in this hour comes the big sea twilights
I have a mysterious restlessness.

Spanish Version

Nocturno Nro. 8

Dolorida en la luna se va la carretera.
Me voy a sentir más hoy tu alma allí;
dolorido en la luna que me mira y espera
y da su solitaria paloma mensajera
que va como acordándose de ti.
Miro las soledades misteriosas del cielo
y nada es más profundo que tu amor,
bailarín de amargura, zapateador de hielo,
tú eres, ¡oh! Sirio, dulce violinista del cielo!
lo que me ha comprendido aquí mejor.
Pero tú eres la luz que tiembla allá:
Voy solo. Voy cansado. Voy ciego. Voy perdido.
Y esta noche de luna, que es música sin ruido
me va poniendo tu alma como en un hondo nido
sobre mi sollozante eternidad.
Con mi sombrero negro empapado en la luna
yo te contaré todo mi dolor…
Le pediré a la muerte más pavor que nos una…
le pediré a la vida más caliente fortuna
de besos, de locura y de temblor.
Yo te contaré toda mi historia de hombre errante
que un día al mundo amargo se lanzó.
Era al partir alegre el joven caminante,
más tarde, curvo y triste, pero más anhelante
su corazón, sangriento, regresó.
Y no se hizo filósofo ni aprendió el humorismo
de los que sólo quieren engañar.
Vio que en la vida sólo el olvido es el abismo
y que su gran secreto es ser siempre uno mismo
y con el alma cálida, esperar…
Y vio que el amor era la única ruta clara
y que por eso sólo hay que existir;
-¡oh, amada la más dulce, la que aclara y ampara!-
yo que he partido en tu alma y he llegado en tu cara
ya sé para qué tengo que vivir.
Sé por qué ante la luna tiemblo como un poeta
del tiempo de Musset y Jorge Sand;
y a veces más que el ritmo de mi ciudad inquieta
busco las sombras íntimas de alguna plazoleta
donde otras cosas íntimas están.
Y por qué mi alma vibra cuando miro unas flores
y en el fino y azul atardecer
en mi cabeza zumban palabras de colores,
y ante las joyerías, mojado de fulgores,
me quedo fino como una mujer.
Y porqué hago mi paso más lento en los caminos
y en todo enreda mi alma su emoción;
y bajo las guitarras nocturnas de los pinos
en la hora de los grandes crepúsculos marinos
tengo una misteriosa agitación.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

Dyamic Polirritmo of the Motorcycle (English and Spanish)

Poem three

ENGLISH VERSION

Translated from the Spanish to the English, by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk and Edited by Dennis L. Siluk (Poet Laureate)

DYNAMIC POLIRRITMO OF THE MOTORCYCLE
BY JUAN PARRA DEL RIEGO

Slanted in the wind the warm keel of the definite profile
and free the spirit to the day like a kite
every evening I launch into the tumult of the avenues
on a vibrating iron horse
my motorcycle!
Hum the pedals; quivers the tire
and in the feverish fiery of the engine
I feel that there is something
that is like my burning throat
with my explosive secret interior.
And I run … run … run …
across the city, with the thrust of my noise
sight a boulevard and trend avenues…
dislocate a corner
and wrap in the wheels
the dizzy palpitating stretch of the streets ….
The shooting reflections of the bulbs, breaks the illumination….
And I launch to a blast, and race to the sea
And again I escape for the boulevards,
rapid serpents of cars and hats,
women and bars
and lights and workers
who pass and hit and escape and return again ….
And I run … run … run …
until high and quite pale
of danger and sky and dizziness in my bold speed
already my soul is not my soul:
it is a piston with music
a wild warm top,
all the dream of the life that in my chest I inflame and weep
the happy race of gold
of the nake and free light that will never leave us.
Ah, run madly convinced
in reaching as the birds up to the blue limit,
listening, inclined,
to the hearing,
the engine,
as if it was the nervous heart of a friend
which burns in a stubborn secret of love!
The eyes rob the life out of themselves unto pieces!
Lights, men, trees, a star…the sea,
and alone I feel
a mad desire to be like the wind
that seems as if it wants to pass.
Soft curve,
pathetic “X”… attack.
Sudden dry clutch … sudden turn … explosion!
Was it the death? Was it the life?
The engine suffers and trembles
and again the wind soaks me with its wine and heart.
Comrades! Comrades!
Give me a T-shirt
of violent green and golden colors that glitter
to sink and crack with my
motorcycle
within the shuddering fields in this evening of colors.
In the devastating
horse his flushed blood sounds
to open every evening of his life
to a romantic moment of departure.
To departure … to arrive … to arrive … to departure...
To run …
to fly …
to die …
to dream …
To departure ...to departure ...to departure …



SPANISH VERSION


POLIRRITMO DINAMICO DE LA MOTOCICLETA
BY JUAN PARRA DEL RIEGO

Sesgada en el viento la cálida quilla del perfil tajante
y suelto el espíritu al día como una cometa
yo todas las tardes me lanzo al tumulto de las avenidas
sobre un trepidante caballo de hierro
¡mi motocicleta!
Zumban los pedales, palpita la llanta
y en la traquearteria febril del motor
yo siento que hay algo
que es como mi ardiente garganta
con mi explosionante secreto interior.
Y corro…corro…corro…
Estocada de mi ruido que atraviesa la ciudad
y ensarto avenidas…suspiro una rambla…disloco una esquina
y envuelvo en las ruedas
la vertiginosa cinta palpitante de las alamedas…
La fusilería de los focos rompe la iluminación…
Y me lanzo a un tiro de carrera al mar
Y otra vez me escapo por los bulevares,
rápidas serpientes de autos y sombreros,
mujeres y bares
y luces y obreros
que pasan y chocan y fugan y vuelven de nuevo a pasar…
Y corro…corro…corro…
hasta que ebrio y todo pálido
de peligro y cielo y vértigo en mi audaz velocidad
ya mi alma no es mi alma:
es un émbolo con música
un salvaje trompo cálido,
todo el sueño de la vida que en mi pecho incendio y lloro
la feliz carrera de oro
de la luz desnuda y libre que jamás nos dejará.
¡Ah, correr locamente convencido
de alcanzar como los pájaros hasta el confín azul,
escuchando, inclinado,
al oído,
el motor,
cual si fuera el nervioso corazón de un amigo
que se quema en un terco secreto de amor!
¡Los ojos se roban la vida a pedazos!
Luces, hombres, árboles, una estrella…el mar,
y ya solo siento
un deseo loco de ser como el viento
que sólo parece que quiere pasar.
Curva suave,
X patética…embestida.
Repentino embrague seco…vuelta súbita…explosión!
¿Fue la muerte? ¿Fue la vida?
el motor sufre y trepida
y otra vez me empapa el viento con su vino el corazón.
¡Camaradas! ¡Camaradas!
denme una camiseta
de violentas pintas verdes y oros como resplandores
para hundirme a puñaladas
de motocicleta
por el campo estremecido de esta tarde de colores.
En el fulminante
caballo que suena su sangre encendida
para abrir todas las tardes de la vida
a un romántico momento de partida.
Partir…llegar…llegar…partir…
Correr…
volar…
morir…
soñar…
partir…partir…partir…

Biography of "Juan Parra del Riego," in English and Spanish by Dennis L. Siluk

ENGLISH VERSION


JUAN PARRA DEL RIEGO´S BIOGRAPHY

Juan Parra del Riego was born on December 20, 1894 in the city of Huancayo, Peru; his parents were Domingo Parra Aubilá and Mercedes Rodríguez Gonzáles del Riego. Juan passed his childhood in Arequipa, studied at the College of the “American Independence,” then with his family he moved to Cuzco (Peru), where he took up studies at the National College of Sciences and Art in the city.
At this time, in the city of Cuzco at the college the poet to be, was awaken to his calling, and quickly demonstrated his skill not only in poetry but in football, which he would write about competently in future years.
Juan then moved to Lima with his family, where he lived his vocation, poetry, by pursuing the art and craft of verse writing; and at the early age of nineteen-years old was awarded his first Gold Medal at the First Floral Games organized by the Counsel
District of San Jose de Surco with his poem called, “Canto to Barranco.”
His poetry was published in many of Peru’s newspapers, and while visiting Trujillo, he became friends with Cesar Vallejo.
In 1916 at only 22- years of age, he made a trip in search of the “American and Universal Citizenship,” visiting Chile where he met Gabriela Mistral, then he visited Argentina and Uruguay, where he was nourished with the era’s literary movements.
During this time he embarked on a trip to Europe, traveling across Holland, Spain and France, into Paris, which dazzled him.
During most of these years, and travels his health remained marginal to manageable to intense.
In 1925 he met the lady poet Blanca Luz Brum with whom he married and had a son whom he named Eduardo.
Juan’s health became very fragile but had a transmittable desire for living as one can see by reading many of his poems. In a short period of time his lungs gave out, damaged beyond repair, he was then taken to the Military Hospital in Montevideo, where on November 21, 1925 he died. The president of the Republic of the Uruguay, Jose Serrato, decreed a national holiday and set the Uruguayan flag at half mast. He was buried in the Cemetery of Buceo.

Note: information extracted from literature by Apolinario Mayta Inga, and Klim Kafra, all parts reedited by Dennis L. Siluk, and revised; translated from the Spanish to English and back into the Spanish by Rosa de Peñaloza de Siluk; as it has been prepared for a forth coming book. The portrait are: Juan Parra del Riego's brothers Domingo and Manuel.



SPANISH VERSION


BIOGRAFÍA DE JUAN PARRA DEL RIEGO

Juan Parra del Riego nació el 20 de diciembre de 1894 en la ciudad de Huancayo, Perú; sus padres fueron don Domingo Parra Aubilá y doña Mercedes Rodríguez Gonzáles del Riego. Juan pasó su niñez en Arequipa, estudió en el Colegio “Independencia Americana”, luego con toda su familia se trasladó a Cuzco (Perú), donde estudió en el Colegio Nacional Colegio Nacional de Ciencias y Arte en esa ciudad.
En este tiempo, en la ciudad de Cuzco y en ese colegio el que iba a ser un poeta, fue despertando a ese llamado, y rápidamente demostraba su habilidad no sólo en la poesía sino en el fútbol, del que él escribiría competentemente en años futuros.
Juan se trasladó a Lima con su familia, donde vivió su vocación: la poesía, perseverando en el arte y oficio de los versos escritos; y a la temprana edad de diecinueve años fue premiado con su primera Medalla de Oro en los Primeros Juegos Florales organizado por el Concejo Distrital de San José de Surco con su poema llamado, “Canto a Barranco”.
Sus poesías fueron publicadas en muchos periódicos de Perú, y mientras visitaba Trujillo entabló amistad con César Vallejo.
En 1916 con tan sólo veintidós años de edad, hizo un viaje en busca de la “Ciudadanía Americana y Universal” visitando Chile donde conoció a Gabriela Mistral, luego visitó Argentina y Uruguay, donde fue nutrido con el movimiento literario de esa época.
Durante este tiempo él se embarcó en un viaje a Europa, viajando a través de Holanda, España y Francia, dentro París, ciudad que lo deslumbra.
Durante la mayor parte de estos años, y viajes su salud permanecía marginal e iba deteriorándose.
En 1925 Juan conoció a la poetisa Blanca Luz Brum con quien contrajo matrimonio y tuvieron un hijo al que llamó Eduardo.
La salud de Juan se volvió muy frágil pero el tenía un deseo contagioso por vivir como uno puede ver leyendo sus muchos poemas. En corto tiempo sus pulmones se deterioraron, dañados al punto de no tener cura; él fue llevado al Hospital Militar en Montevideo, donde el 21 de noviembre de 1925 murió. El Presidente de la República de Uruguay, José Serrato, decretó duelo nacional y ordenó izar la bandera uruguaya a media asta. Fue enterrado en el Cementerio de Buceo.

Nota: información extraída de la literatura de Apolinario Mayta Inga y Klim Kafra, todo reeditado y revisado por Dennis L. Siluk; traducido del español al inglés y del inglés al español por Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk; como este ha sido preparado para un próximo libro. Los retratos son de los hermanos de Juan Parra del Riego: Domingo y Manuel.

Thursday, July 26, 2007

The Winds of Peru (Los Vientos del Peru) & Canto to Barranco (The Sea)

Poem One

ENGLISH VERSION

Translated from the Spanish to the English, by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk and Edited by Dennis L. Siluk (Poet Laureate)

THE WINDS OF PERU
BY JUAN PARRA DEL RIEGO


There is nothing in this world, nor the sun, or in war
as to the wild winds of this land!

Neither the bladelike profile of the Sierras,
nor the streaks of lightening that vibrate, nor the thunder that terrifies,
nor the same flash of lightening that opens and closes
and the sea that grips the beaches…it grips…

There is nothing in this world, nor the sun, or in war
as to the wild winds of this land!

Brisk winds that wave handkerchiefs
of dust in the escape of the big flights,
but that softer than the velvets
when they crash of vague desires
seems that then they come down from the skies
with the madness of a thousand exhortations.
They would leave dancing without stepping on the ground
the lighthearted dance of the veils.
I recall the tropical blasts
because of a hundred bronze trumpets in choir
I owe to them this gesture, which I never implore,
nor do I tremble, neither do I cry …
I recall the tropical blasts
when in the plains where the bull bellows
and the horse makes happy its resonant sounds
they twist into golden spinning tops.

There is nothing in this world, nor the sun, or in war
as to the wild winds of this land!

Casuhiras of the forest, jumping felines
that scratch and climb the thin trees
and playing to the game of the vortex
- Oh, blue drunkenness of divine pleasures! -
they sound in the branches, sing in the pines
and roll behind the peasants
who in the evenings return for those ways
where the road of weary oxen
looks as if to cry, likened to the mills.
Vicious proprietors at first light
half-open closed doors, in the countryside
likened to a nervous driving force,
I learned by you my rough tunes
and to go for the world as the waterfalls:
jumping, impulses, winged roads
and I do not know what anxiety on sacred summits
but it makes me become an unfolded sail
for the deepest ignored routes.
Ocean cyclones that initiate a journey
that never stop on the wild seas.
And jeer to the lash of a mad carriage
which is the runaway vision of the landscape.
Break the statues that carve the surge
they attack the vessels upon the boarding.
And as in Esquilo they say a language
that is more the tragedy of a wild soul.

There is nothing in this world, nor the sun, or in war
as to the wild winds of this land!

In the sensitive rural mornings
the tempest of the dramatic Mascaichas
—smell of the water virgins, to the jungles and cornfields!—
Oh, dizzy cheerful satyrs
that to the peasants of fruit-bearing bosoms
throw mad the slight percales
as if they wanted, drunks and sensual
to take them rapidly up to the wheat fields…
I still have not forgotten that I come from those
cities with manly summits of epics
under the golden vineyards that exist in the stars.
If I feel in my blood the fluttering signs
of those wild and sweet maidens
whom to the Spanish— were spears and sparks—
for seeing Atahualpa die, together with them
were saying soft as the stars
such sad things…and so beautiful things…
Winds, winds, winds of my land, lions
that the dust curls with its cottons,
let’s go frantic for the towns
of this old America with its traditions
that makes of its people servants and clowns.
And devastating, tragic, let's sing songs
That shake like pistons to the hearts,
refresh the souls and lift the passions
in the red lances of other rebellions.

There is nothing in this world, nor the sun, or in war
as to the wild winds of this land!




SPANISH VERSION

LOS VIENTOS DEL PERU
POR JUAN PARRA DEL RIEGO

¡No hay nada en el mundo, ni el sol, ni la guerra
como los salvajes vientos de esta tierra!

Ni el acuchillado perfil de la sierra,
ni el rayo que vibra, ni el trueno que aterra,
ni el mismo relámpago que abre y se cierra
y el mar que en las playas se aferra…se aferra…

¡No hay nada en el mundo, ni el sol, ni la guerra
como los salvajes vientos de esta tierra¡

Aires ululantes que agitan pañuelos
de polvo en la fuga de los grandes vuelos,
pero que más suaves que los terciopelos
cuando se entrechocan de vagos anhelos
parece que entonces bajó de los cielos
y en una locura de mil ritornelos
se fueran bailando sin pisar los suelos
la vertiginosa danza de los velos.

Tropicales ráfagas que yo rememoro
porque a sus cien rubias trompetas en coro
les debo este gesto con que nunca imploro,
con que nunca tiemblo, con que nunca lloro…

Tropicales ráfagas que yo rememoro
cuando en las llanuras donde muge el toro
y el caballo alegra su clarín sonoro
se iban dando vueltas como trompos de oro.

¡No hay nada en el mundo, ni el sol, ni la guerra
como los salvajes vientos de esta tierra!

Casuhiras del monte, saltantes felinos
que arañan y trepan los árboles finos
y jugando al juego de los remolinos
-¡Oh, azul borrachera de goces divinos!-
suenan en las ramas, cantan en los pinos
y se van rodando tras los campesinos
que en las tardes vuelven por esos caminos
donde la carretera de bueyes cansinos
parece que llora como los molinos.

Pamperos violentos que en las madrugadas
del campo entreabrían las puertas cerradas
como a una nerviosa lucha de estocadas,
yo aprendí en vosotros mis rudas tonadas
y el ir por el mundo como las cascadas:
a saltos, impulsos, carreteras aladas
y no sé que angustia de cumbres sagradas
que me hace ser todo velas desplegadas
para las más hondas rutas ignoradas.

Ciclones marinos que inician un viaje
Que nunca se para sobre el mar salvaje.

Y pifian la fusta de un loco carruaje
que es la desbocada visión del paisaje.

Rompen las estatuas que esculpe el oleaje,
atacan los buques como al abordaje.

Y como en Esquilo dicen un lenguaje
que es más la tragedia de un alma salvaje.

¡No hay nada en el mundo, ni el sol, ni la guerra
como los ciclones del mar de esta tierra!

Mascaichas dramáticos de los temporales
en las sensitivas mañanas rurales
-¡olor a aguas vírgenes, a las selvas y maizales!-

¡Oh, vertiginosos sátiros joviales
que a las campesinas de senos frutales
tirábanles locos los leves percales
como si quisieran, ebrios y sensuales
llevarles rápido hasta los trigales…

Yo aún no me he olvidado que vengo de aquellas
ciudades con cumbre viril de epopeyas
bajo el parral de oro que hay en las estrellas.

¡Si aun siento en mi sangre palpitar las huellas
de aquellas salvajes y dulces doncellas
que a los españoles –danzas y centellas-
por ver a Atahualpa morir junto a ellas
les decían suaves como las estrellas
qué cosas tan tristes…qué cosas tan bellas…
Vientos, vientos, vientos de mi tierra, leones
que el polvo enmelena con sus algodones,
vámonos frenéticos por las poblaciones
de esta vieja América con sus tradiciones
que hacen de las gentes siervos y bufones.

Y arrollantes, trágicos, rompamos canciones
Que agiten como émbolos a los corazones,
refresquen las almas y alcen las pasiones
en las rojas lanzas de otras rebeliones.

¡No hay nada en el mundo, ni el sol, ni la guerra
como los salvajes vientos de esta tierra.!



Poem Two

ENGLISH VERSION

Translated from the Spanish to the English, by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk and Edited by Dennis L. Siluk (Poet Laureate)


CANTO TO BARRANCO
(The Sea)

BY JUAN PARRA DEL RIEGO


Sea by Barranco, meditative sea,
sad sea, sea without sails, asleep sea,
my pain is bitter and is deep
because on seeing you your sorrow I have taken.
If you have your shipwrecked persons, oh Sea!
that denies the appearance of your calmness
I also like you … know how to disguise
the shipwrecked illusions of my soul.
Like this sun that sinks sadly, sadly,
in your confines of gold and red dressings
thus they are sinking slow, slow,
when before your broad face I dream and ponder,
in your blue secret … my thoughts
like endless drunken birds.


CANTO A BARRANCO
(El Mar)

Mar de Barranco, mar meditabundo,
mar triste, mar sin velas, mar dormido,
mi dolor es amargo y es profundo
porque al verte tu pena he cogido.
Si tú tienes tus náufragos ¡oh mar!
que niega la apariencia de tu calma
yo también como tú sé enmascarar
las ilusiones náufragas de mi alma.
Como ese sol que se hunde triste, triste,
en tu confín que de oro y grana viste,
así se van hundiendo lentos, lentos,
cuando ante tu ancha faz sueño y medito,
en tu secreto azul mis pensamientos
como pájaros ebrios de infinito.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Ode to Juan Parra del Riego ((by Dennis L. Siluk)(In English Only))

Juan, king of poets of Peru, farthest bound
And the poet of Huancayo, so crowned.
Behold, the fires of your words are now drawn
Bring forth your poems, we beacken at dawn.
By some new echoes in the cosmic tone--
On Earty, you have risen to heights unknown.

Dedicated to Juan Parra del Riego

#1918 7-25-2007